Tempest of His Soul
by Sylvertongue
Summary: Snape has finally succeeded in helping to bring about the defeat of the Dark Lord. Now he's ready to be taken away as the criminal that he is so he can suffer his due punishment for his many sins. At least that was what he was hoping for.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So for the purpose of this story the plot is pretty much canon in terms of events until the end of the 6th book. There might be some differences later on.**

**I don't own any thing to do with the Harry Potter universe, since, regrettably, the lovely Ms. Rowling pounced on that mouse first (although she did a much better job than I ever could have.)**

Ice chinked against the glass, sending out a swirl of the clear liquid, diluting the amber whiskey. The cool tumbler beaded, sweating under the glare of it's dark eyed drinker. He was unaware how long his drink had sat unattended under his brooding vision, nor did he particularly care.

Severus Snape was bitter in his drunken state. In his house on Spinner's End he sad, stupored, lost in thought, waiting for the night to play out. He had been sent home early in the evening, dismissed from the Dark Lord's presence with high praise and instructions to enjoy himself.

Now he waited, contemplating his place in the world, trying to remember his accomplishments; trying to find solace in them. But all he could feel was a biting sense of despair, a gripping ache of loss.

Aurors would shortly come calling, to escort him off to Azkaban, dragged along with the other Death Eaters of the feared inner circle. It was all as he had planned.

Except one thing. Now that his Dark Mark had burned, flaring in it's death throes, and faded from his arm, he found that all he was full of regret. It had washed over him unexpectedly, filling him even as the pieces of his well-oiled plan slid into place. Still, he sat there, with no intention to run, for fleeing would not grant him satisfaction, only doubt.

He raised the tumbler to his lips, trying to occupy his hands. A part of him, either a new part, or a part so buried he had forgotten it existed, wanted to scream and shake at the unfair hand he felt he was being dealt.

Steeling himself, he did none of these things. In taking the final step in protecting the Wizarding world he could now begin to atone for the many sins he had committed along the way. Although some would argue that he had already atoned with this one final act, he knew that bringing about the demise of the Dark Lord did nothing to correct the atrocities, the murders, he had taken part in.

Draining the whiskey, he failed to notice the scorching burn as it ran down his throat. As he set the glass down he could hear a creak of floorboards. The Aurors had arrived, announcing their presence by treading to heavily in the kitchen. He drew his wand and placed it on the coffee table, taking care to make sure it was clearly visible in the center. If they were more concerned with apprehending him quickly and safely it would hopefully escape their attention that the dangerous Severus Snape would never keep his wand out of reach, even in his own home.

"She was right. I never would have believed it, but Hermione was right about this." An astonished voice whispered from the dark entry.

Snape froze, petrified for a spare moment. Closing his eyes, he realized that the one final part of his plan had failed, and was ashamed that a part of him felt immensely relieved.

Raising his eyes, he could just barely make out a dark silhouette blending into the shadow of the darkened kitchen entry, but he knew who it was.

Harry Potter emerged, his wand raised but his face bearing an expression of supplication. Snape made no attempt at movement, and was unsure whether he actually could. He felt drained, rooted to the spot. His plans hadn't provided for this. There was no supplemental course of action, no backup plan to implement. He had intended to entirely leave his fate in the hands of those who believed him guilty, and had felt free in knowing that he would no longer need to take initiative, or choose a direction, for the remaining duration of his short life.

Yet the appearance of Potter, as well as the boy's demeanor, told him this would not be the case. He knew that he would now be asked questions of what and why and how. He would have to make the decision of what to tell the boys, and suffer the consequences regardless what he told him, or how much.

As these thoughts struggled through his intoxicated haze he had yet to move or noticeably react to Potter's presence in his kitchen. Instead he stared at the boy with the same dead, cold look he had adopted so many years ago in his service to the Dark Lord. Potter stepped forward into the light, looking slightly unnerved.

"I saw you put your wand on the table. You knew some one was coming, and so you made it easy…" Potter faltered, scrutinizing Snape, as if beseeching him to reveal the motives behind his actions. Yet Snape's face remained a death mask. He was still weighed down by the sudden surprise of his failure, his mind refusing to break from the submission he had molded it into in preparation for his incarceration and possible execution.

"What's wrong, Snape? What is this? What are you doing… Who are you?" The last question was whispered; as though Potter could not reconcile himself with the person in front of him to the man he had grown to loath over the years. A man he could even hate after the murder of Dumbledore.

"Say something!" He shouted. Now Snape came to enough to consider two options. He could go for his wand, and, before the less skilled Potter could stop him, take his own life. Or he could submit himself to interrogation, during which he would always be treated with scorn and dislike while the life, the normal, content life he was now yearning dangled in sight but always out of reach.

It was with considerable effort that he opened his mouth. "Say what, exactly, Potter?" He couldn't muster his usual garnish of contempt or sarcasm. Instead he sounded weak, defeated, exhausted, just how he felt.

Harry seemed surprised and wary. His most recent, and final, bout with the Dark Lord was evident on his face, but he carried an air of grim determination as he strode fully into the small sitting room.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, but you have questions to answer, dammit!" He exclaimed. A pair of Aurors, who had been lurking behind Harry in the darkness, came forward.

"No, it's fine." He told them, and the ferocity of his face held them at bay, unwilling to contradict the man who had defeated the Dark Lord scant hours ago.

"Take your wand." Harry commanded. Snape stared at him yet again, as though he needed stern force to goad him into action.

"Yes, your wand, take it!" Harry reiterated, irritated and further unnerved. Snape reached for his wand, slowly, his dead eyes never leaving Harry's. Once he had grasped it firmly in his hand, Harry turned to the Aurors.

"Go back to the ministry. I can handle this, and they'll be needing your help with the others."

They looked unsure, one stepping forward and opening his mouth to protest.

"Just do it." Snapped Harry. He was exhausted and close to his limit. Realizing the finality of their dismissal, the Aurors turned to leave, exiting out the back.

Harry stood in silence, waiting a few moments until he heard the faint pop of their Apparation.

"Get up, we're leaving." Said Harry. "Who knows when one of them will come knocking again. I don't want this to be even more difficult. Come with me."

Harry seemed unsure as to whether the despondent man would follow his commands. To his relief Snape stood, still grasping his wand, waiting for Harry to lead the way out the front entrance.

They quickly made their way down the narrow, impoverished lane, not passing a single Muggle in the late hour. Once they had put the significant distance between themselves and the derelict house Harry hesitantly proffered his arm, which Snape took lightly. Turning on the spot they vanished with a resonating crack.

* * *

A/N:

Hola compadres! I began this story while I was in jail! Actually, it was work-release jail (it's like a stupid, weird, strict summer camp that's considered jail you can leave on a daily basis for work... if you have a job... or you can leave to look for one... and have almost every thing you normally use in day-to-day life except good food).

And no, I didn't kill puppies or any thing, just got caught driving without a license because I was to poor to renew it... big mistake! I'm typing it all out, since I couldn't have my computer, but I think hand writing a story has merits. You have longer to ponder over what you're writing since it's slower (at least for me), so it comes out better.

There's still more I haven't finished typing, and more in my head, so if you like it, I hope you continue reading. Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

In the kitchen of number 12, Grimmwald place, a debate was taking place. Normally, any dispute of what mattered when, or who garnered what favor, would take place openly, and quite loudly. Today it was different.

"You can't let him here." A voice hissed. "I know it seems one way, but there's also so much against him."

"Hermione, you're the one who came up with the reason for him to be here. Stop messing around." Harry was not open to debate, and the fact that he had already been expected to accept his least favorite teacher in a confrontation did not help him.

"I know," She said, the venom now gone from her voice. Harry looked at her to see she was working her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes focused on the table.

"Don't worry, Hermione. I'm sure you were right in the beginning. And plus, I want some answers. We've been going so long on half truths and now we have a chance to know what really happened, even if it will take some time."

"Do you really think he'll tell us the truth?" She asked, eyes still on the gleaming table.

"Yes, I do. I think it will take a while before he's willing to let us know everything, but I think that he will."

She nodded, and Harry could tell she was trying to school her expression into one of determination. A part of him felt humored to know that she refused to show her weakness in front of the professor.

"I'll go get him." He told her. After receiving her sharp nod to let him know she was ready, he went to get Snape from the small side room in which he was waiting.

A moment later they were seated across from him, Hermione facing Snape with a look of concentration. After a long silence, Hermione spoke.

"So you were the one who planted the information for us to find?"

"Yes, Granger."

"But that doesn't make any sense! You murdered Dumbledore, so why should you aid us in defeating Voldemort?" She herself seemed stretched to the limit, and found the reasons behind Snape's actions difficult to piece together.

"Miss Granger, you can insist on believing what you will, but the fact is that I provided the information that led to the downfall in the last night. I regret your refusal in believing it. I had always the impression you were not prey to such petty hindrances when it came to fact." This longest outburst from Snape came from behind a hand wearily cupped over his face. The inquisition he was now subject to was draining.

"But why were you ready to turn yourself in? Why not use the evidence for acquittal? What were you expecting to happen? I'm having a hard time believing that you would hide your innocence so well instead of seeking freedom."

"I expect there are many things you don't understand."

"Answer, professor, what did you expect to happen?"

"To die." There was a silence that settled over the kitchen. Snape seemed surprised at his own admission, and Hermione shocked. She looked behind her to Harry, her face pleading him for a clue how on how to move forward. Neither one of them were prepared to deal with a suicidal professor, even if it was one they greatly disliked.

"I think that's enough," Said Harry, breaking the tense silence. Hermione's face flooded with relief that was automatically tempered with concern.

"Snape, you'll come with me." Harry stated, waiting for the professor to follow. Once they were on the landing Harry paused.

"Thank you." He said, not turning to look at Snape. Starting up the stair again, he led Snape to what once had been the bedroom of the late Mrs. Black. It had been better kept than the rest of the home throughout the years, evidence of Kreacher's long devotion. The room had less of an air of neglect than the rest of the house, which even with Kreacher's renewed ministrations had yet to return to the former state of splendor.

In Harry's mind, the room was ideal for holding Snape as it featured a private washroom with no outside access.

"I'll be keeping your wand." Harry informed Snape as they entered the room.

For a moment Snape was tempted to admonish him as he would a student, which Harry seemed to sense. Nonetheless, he handed it over after only a moment's delay.

"I'm going to lock the door." Harry informed him with a twinge of guilt as he left, reminded briefly of a memory of Vernon Dursley. For a second, black eyes met green, and the door swung shut, the lock clicking before muffled footsteps retreated down the stairs.

Snape stood in the middle of the suite for a moment, his shoulders hunched. The walls were papered in green satin and the room furnished with ancient armchairs and a large bed. Over the dresser hung a large, gold gilded mirror in which Snape spied his reflection. In the dim room it eerily looked as though his face floated, detached and ghostly white.

His black clothing and black hair blended into the background, unnoticeable unless looked for. After staring into the darkened holes of his own eyes he turned and left for the bathroom.

Early the next morning Harry sat across from Hermione, who was stifling a yawn.

He was certain that the dark bags under her eyes were mirrored under his own, and sighed under the weight of the work they had yet to complete.

Most pressing on his mind was the mystery of the morose professor residing in the upstairs room.

"What do you make of it?" He asked with no preamble.

"I don't know," Hermione lamented, catching his meaning immediately. "I find it suspect he would just hand himself over like that… unless…" She stopped, lost in thought. Harry waited for a moment as her eyes glazed.

"Unless what?" He asked impatiently.

"Well, I'm not sure… it could be a long shot, but what if he were atoning for past sins? We know that he's done bad things as a death eater, so it would make sense that he' s committed more atrocious acts that we haven't even heard about." She shook her head. "Even if that were the case, it's still much to subject yourself to death. Besides, we don't know him well enough to even guess at a true motive."

Harry considered what she had said. To him, if he put aside his anger at Snape, it seemed possible. Yet in his mind he had already started to form a different hypothesis that allowed him to hate the professor.

"What if… what if he thought he couldn't run from us forever, so he decided to turn himself in so we'd be easier on him?" He asked, aware there was doubt in his voice.

"No…" Hermione replied slowly. "No, I don't think he's done this for leniency. He is a very talented wizard. I'm sure he could have evaded us if he tried." She stifled another yawn and took a long drink of her coffee.

"Why don't we worry about this later? We should check if the ministry needs any more help. Besides, I want to check on Ron and his family later."

Harry, relieved that Hermione had suggested it, rose from the table, pushing the issue of Snape from his mind.

Snape sat in the dimly lit quarters of the dead matron Black. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, allowing only a thin stream of light though. His eyes unconsciously followed the path of errant dust floating through the beam, his mind occupied with other things.

He had not yet slept, instead spending the night deep in thought. At first he had stood in the bathroom, considering fulfilling his plans by suicide. As the night passed he could not bring himself to justify it. Losing his life that way, as far as he could tell, was not nearly the same as having it taken from him in execution. Execution would provide justice and redemption, but he was not convinced of the same with suicide.

However, he hadn't yet fully discounted suicide from his options. He was fully aware that one of the things keeping him from using that method was the shame that would be involved. Taking his own life could be so melodramatic, and that was something he wanted nothing to do with. He was also, in a way, terrified.

Now he sat waiting for the sound of creaking stairs, shuffling steps on the landing. Curious as the to line of questioning Potter and Granger would take against him. Surprisingly, the hotheaded Weasley had not been present during his questioning, a small blessing.

For at least the moment he decided he would wait to make up his mind. He wasn't sure what, exactly, the ungodly trio was preparing to do, but he didn't discount that they could be possibly lenient towards him, forgiving his past transgressions in light of his major sacrifice.

Hours later he could hear the shrieking of Mrs. Black's portrait in the lower corridor, announcing the arrival of someone. After waiting for a long while, he could hear the eventual ascendance of someone on the steps.

The door clicked and opened, revealing a tired looking Harry Potter bearing a tray.

"I forgot to ask Kreacher to bring you food. I'm sorry." He said a bit tersely, setting the tray on the small table. Harry then moved to sit in an armchair directly across from where Snape sat on the edge of the overlarge bed.

"That's fine." Murmured Snape softly, still collecting his thoughts. Harry stared at him, bewildered, but the professor seemed to hardly notice or care. He cleared his throat, awkwardly aware of the unsettling behavior of Snape.

"Is there something you want, Potter, or do you merely wish to observe me as I eat?" Said Snape, who had made no move towards the food.

Harry could only guffaw at the man. The jibe, lacking the usual infusion of bitter scorn, had almost sounded like an attempt at good-natured humor. The only thing wrong with it was the dead monotone.

"I'll leave you to eat." He stammered, wondering if Snape was inwardly laughing at his unease.

The door closed, leaving Snape alone once more in the poorly lit room. He stared at the food with little appetite. He doubted that Harry would attempt to poison him. No, in fact, the gesture of the mean indicated that he was in for a long stay.

Sighing, he stood, shrugging off his outer robes and making his way to the bed with the gaudy headboard. If they were going to keep him for an extended stay he may as well be well rested for their inevitable questioning. And frankly, if dared to admit it to himself, he was exhausted.

He sat across Potter and Granger, his dark eyes meeting theirs. Not boldly, but in a way that conveyed years of practice. Of course he looked his accusers in the eye. Remorseful he may be, depressed yes, but a coward? No. He wasn't sure what to expect from two youths who had so clearly despised him for years. Two youths he had given no reason to not despise him.

Truly, his greatest desire at the moment was to return to the dark room they had imprisoned him in. He wanted to go back and master the new feeling of purposeless that had immersed him. It had crept in during the night as he lay in bed, leaving him gasping and trembling; almost sobbing. 'Its over' had repeated in his mind as an involuntary mantra, filling him with lost desperation. An immense pressure had weighed down his limbs, leaving him tense, rigid, and unable to relieve his quaking breath. He knew that at least twice during the frightful night a sound like a wounded animal had torn from his throat when his mind had been too busy to register the actions of his own body.

No, he certainly did not want to be sitting across from the two distrusting Gryffindors after such a night.

"Professor…" Granger started, "Professor, after it was all done, the portrait of Dumbledore said something that made it sound like you've been helping us the whole time. But if that's true, why didn't you declare your side in the final battle? Why would you leave something like that open to speculation?"

If he had been the type of man to laugh, he would have. For such a brilliant girl, she could be really stupid sometimes. That or naïve. Instead he stared at her coldly, unwilling to answer the same question she had posed the night before. Did she expect a different answer? Had she thought that in the shock of the Dark Lord's defeat he had not answered her candidly? His unexpected answer the previous night had been honest, and he was unimpressed that she could not realize that.

"Professor?" Harry asked, almost demanding an answer. Snape sighed inwardly, feeling his patience wearing thin.

"You fools." He said, almost hissing. "You fools. What makes you think my answer would have changed from the previous night? No matter if you had or had not defeated the Dark Lord, Potter, what other feasible outcome do you see that I could have expected?" He spat, venom laced into every word. Idiots, both of them.

Potter looked at him indignantly, opening his mouth as if readying with some retort. However, in a show of wills that surprised Snape, he closed his mouth. Granger looked both angry and confused, not liking his mocking of her intelligence.

"What do you mean by that, Professor? If you had only made it obvious at the end it would have saved us a lot of trouble and you would be a free man!" She exclaimed as if she were explaining the simplest thing in the world.

"Is that so, Granger? After all you've seen you really believe that?" He said quietly, using the same voice that had held many potion classes at attention. "The only way the so called 'good' side of the wizarding world will accept me is dead as a martyr, and even then many people, many people with power and weight, would feel that with my death a great justice has been served. As it is, since I have survived, they will demand my blood in retribution for all of my crimes, both perceived and real. And as for the Dark Lord, he would have killed me instantly after you three burst onto the scene destroying his precious remaining Horcruxes with the sword that I had been entrusted to keep. No, Granger, Potter, I had no intentions of joining that battle and forfeiting my life in the frenzy. I knew my death was coming, sooner or later, and I decided to spend my last night of freedom well away from the sickening power struggle that has enslaved me for the last nineteen years of my life."

He knew he had said too much, but felt satisfaction at the embarrassed shame that had flushed the face of his questioners.

"Fine, Professor, fine. I think we're beginning to understand, if only a little." Harry placatingly. "We don't even have to talk about that now, because we've actually heard of a few things that you might want to know."

"Yes, Potter?"

"Well," He continued with a cough, "We've heard things from the ministry, about you. They're looking for you, for the murder of Dumbledore, and a few other things. Like you said, wanting your blood in retribution. But we can't let them have you, because you have the answer to so many things we need cleared up. I know you don't really want to help us, or answer our questions. The portrait of Dumbledore told us enough that we're not just going to turn you in that quickly. He let us know that there were reasons you killed him, reasons that you would have to tell us yourself. And you know other things. Voldemort is dead, but there's so many things that are a mess, and we need help to clean it up."

"Where are you going with this, Potter?"

"Well, we can't keep you here… and I don't want to keep you like a prisoner any ways. But we want to keep you safe from the ministry, especially right now when it's still trying to figure out what it's doing. Kingsley is trying his best but…" Pausing when he noticed Snape's raised brows, he cleared his throat again.

"We going to hide you at Hermione's home, for right now, and give you a different wand to use so they can't trace your signature. You can have yours, but you'll just have that one to use." Harry stopped, looking back at Hermione who seemed displeased, but resigned to the plan.

Snape sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. Him, hiding in the Muggle home of Hermione Granger? The whole idea was preposterous, and besides, he had not lived in a muggle home since his childhood—and that had been unpleasant.

Sighing, he made up his mind. "Very well, Potter, I will go to this house, if only to make time to plan my next move." He conceded, not looking at either as he agreed to this degrading course of action.

"Very good," Said Harry. He rose from the chair and made as to leave before stopping suddenly, gripped by an afterthought.

"Oh, and Professor?" Black eyes rose to meet green, "If I find your explanation for killing Dumbledore unsatisfactory, I will not hesitate to collect my own retribution."


	3. Chapter 3

He stared, enduring the silent contest of wills. Every thing in that moment was annoying. Vile, horrible, and annoying. Unwilling to waiver, Snape fortified his resolve and resumed his vigil.

Across the room, on a large wooden stand, a blurred and darkened reflection stared back, the details warped and lost in the gloom. The television set in the Granger home was putting up a brilliant fight against his angry stares, not buckling in the least. After a solid hour of this ridiculous battle, Snape rose with a huff, made his way to the television, and viciously jammed his index finger into the power button.

The tv cast a pale light as it warmed, before the screen finally resolved into a collection of rapidly blinking images. Snape was not happy about it, not in the least, but he realized that perhaps losing him self in mindless drabble was better than being left to his own thoughts.

He hadn't been in the presence of a television set since his childhood, and was sure he disliked the modern, more refined version just as much as he had disliked the technology when it had still been in its infancy.

Idly, his attention wandered to the screen, a news broadcast enlightening its viewers as to the affairs of country and world. "Of course," He thought to himself, "What else but news would be on in the Granger home?"

He wasn't feeling particularly kind towards the Grangers. While their home was comfortably furnished and clean, there was no real substance to it. The girl had explained that when her parents had moved to Australia, they had taken most of the quality reading material, leaving only dentistry texts they no longer relied on behind. She had told him, no doubt in a moment of guilt, that he would be welcome to any books in her room. Apparently, while on the run from the Dark Lord, she had only taken what she deemed essential in her mobile library. No doubt most classic fiction had failed to meet her 'essential' designation.

Yet, so far he had not ventured into the girl's room. He had been staying, alone, in the Granger home for three days, and so far had been content to brood. But now the inactivity, the lack of action, had started to get to him. Throughout his life he had always been a man with a purpose, whether it was studying, brewing, teaching, spying, or fighting for his life. Never in the last sixteen or so years could he remember sitting around with nothing to do for even a single day, much less three.

Eyes still on the screen, he fought with himself. There was a part of him that suggested the reason he hadn't ventured into the girl's room was, perhaps, because he was afraid—or at the very least, uneasy. He quickly dismissed this idea; after all, he had been in several of the girls' dormitories a few times during his tenure as Slytherin head of house. True, there had been an over abundance of garishly pink clothing, accessories, and toiletry on each of his necessary visits, but the worst that had ever come of it was a mild headache. Despite his misgivings about the girl, a plethora of pink was not something he expected to find in her room.

Swearing softly under his breath, he rose and left the sitting room, leaving the tv on without a thought. He climbed the stairs to the second level two at a time, reaching the top quickly and allowing his annoyance with himself quicken his pace as he crossed the hall. Reaching her door, he threw it open, and stood in the entry.

As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he could immediately see his assumptions about the atrocious color pink were correct. Not a trace of it was in evidence. Snape strode into the room, flipping on the light switch. In fact, he realized, there wasn't much of anything in her room. Standard furniture, a bed a desk, drawers, a bookshelf, and a night table. The surfaces of each piece of furniture was bare, save for the bed and the book shelf, the former covered with a plain blue comforter and the latter filled to bursting with books. Skimming the titles, he conceded he was moderately impressed with the selection of both magical and muggle texts.

While reading would not give him the sense of purpose he desired, it would help to occupy him while he waited for the dynamic duo to make time for him.

SSSSSSSSSSS

Harry sat, feeling like an intruder. The atmosphere of the Burrow was subdued, almost as silent as a tomb. Since the death of Fred, it seemed as though the life had been sucked out of the family, leaving each member a pale ghost of a person.

Across from him at the opposite end of the table sat George. Harry glanced at him for what twentieth time, trying not to stare, but unable to bury his feeling of concern and guilt. For the few days after the final battle, since the death of Fred, George had yet to do anything. He never seemed to move on his own accord, instead letting family members direct his body as though he was a marionette. Since Harry had arrived at the Burrow, George had been sitting at the table, unmoving, his eyes gazing blindly at the plate of food set before him.

Mrs. Weasley had attempted to coax him into eating each day, only to become more frustrated and depressed as she failed. She hadn't gotten to the point of force-feeding him, but Harry guessed it was only a matter of time. He had half a mind to shake the no-longer-twin himself, to try and get him to realize that Fred would never want him to deteriorate so badly. But he didn't. The wound was still fresh, and the only thing that would truly work was time. A cliché, true, but a correct cliché.

Sighing, he decided that he could at least be of some assistance while he was at the Burrow. Hermione had long since disappeared with Ron, trying to offer him some comfort. Harry couldn't help but feel bad for them. After years of waiting, they had finally succumbed to their desire for each other, only to have the joy of it wiped out with Fred's death that very same night. Harry knew they would be all right, and eventually happy, just not at that moment. It was more than what he could say about him and Ginny. So much had happened, and they both seemed to feel distant from each other, as though they were strangers pretending to be long time acquaintances.

No, he didn't want to dwell on those thoughts now. Whatever his future had in store for him he would accept it. With the prophecy fulfilled Harry felt a little uneasy about the future, because for once he had no guidance, no warning. He was determined to focus his concern on the present, because that's what he felt mattered most.

But still, he needed to be useful, so he went to George and grabbed him gently by the elbow, pulling him up with the smallest force. Of course George didn't resist, he just needed small indications of what was happening around him. Harry guided him out the kitchen, up the stairs, and to his room. Once there, he sat George on the bed and removed his shoes before pushing him to a laying position. Harry wasn't sure if his brothers or father had been helping him dress or bath, and he didn't want to know. It was hard seeing the formerly unworried boy comatose with grief, bereft of the will to live.

As Harry left the room, he wondered what it would be like to lose a twin. Fred and George had always been together, almost as though they had been of one mind, one heart, and one body. Sometimes Harry had found it difficult to imagine them married and with their own families, because that would have meant they would have had to live separately, live different lives. Perhaps that was why neither of them ever had actual relationships, just one night flings when the opportunity presented itself.

He found he didn't want to think about this either. There were so many things he didn't want to think about. Suddenly, he knew what he did want to do. He wanted to go back to Grimmwald place and, for the first time in his life, get roaring drunk.

He knew it wasn't a solution to his problems, but he felt he deserved it. In the past there had always been too many threats to his life, too many things to worry about for him to freely experiment like other teenagers. But now, he had his own house, and most of the escaped Death Eaters had been rounded up. He felt sure he would be fine, and more importantly, he felt like it would distract him for at least a little while.

Jotting a quick note for Hermione and the Weasleys to let him know where he was going, he made his way to the apparation point outside the gate and turned on the spot, landing on the door step of Grimmwald place a moment later. Although landing on the doorstep was no longer necessary, he still did it out of instinct. The Fidelous Charm had not been broken when Yaxly had attached himself to Hermione so long ago; it just had bestowed Yaxly with the secret. With Yaxly dead, it was as safe as ever, since Yaxly had only held the secret, but not the power of a secret keeper.

Stepping inside, he was stood for a moment in the, waiting for Mad Eye's security measures to expend themselves. Even though the war was now over, he had not had time to remove the securities measure, and was unsure if he could even manage it.

After he assured 'Dusty' he was not, in fact, his murderer, he stepped past, only to be assaulted by Kreacher.

"Master, I did not expect your return!" The elf chattered, forcibly removing Harry's cloak as he doted on him. Harry exchanged greetings with the happy elf as he made his way to the kitchen.

"Would Master like anything tasty to eat? Any of his favorites? Kreacher had not expected Master, but Kreacher will make something right away, if Master will only wait for a moment!" Harry chuckled internally. He was still immensely grateful for the loyal, helpful version of Kreacher, and respected him after his leading of the Hogwarts house elves during the final battle. He had, despite his pleading, been unsuccessful in convincing Kreacher in taking a small break since that night, but was somewhat grateful the elf had declined. Harry had simply been too busy to take care of himself, and Kreacher had taken over marvelously.

"No, Kreacher, I'm fine. I just came from the Burrow, and Mrs. Weasley always makes me eat until I'm going to burst. But maybe I'll have a small snack later."

"Of course, Sir, very good." Kreacher hummed, most likely planning a future feast in lieu of a snack. Since Harry had brought down Regalus Blacks killer, Kreacher had been all the more enthusiastic in his service to Harry.

Harry wandered over to the liquor cabinet, which was still generously stocked from when Sirius had returned to Grimmwald Place. Picking out a bottle of firewhiskey and a glass, he wandered back to the table, where Kreacher was now considering him with doubt in his eyes.

"Master, it is not my place, but Kreacher will warn Master to be careful. Kreacher does not want Master to be sick, or get hurt." Harry couldn't help but feel he was being told off by a parent, and felt a little gush of affection towards Kreacher.

"I know, it's fine, Kreacher. I'm not going to get out of hand. And besides, if I do drink too much, I'll have you to take care of me. I wouldn't trust anyone else to do that."

Kreacher's chest swelled a little in pride at Harry's trust in him, but he still wasn't completely persuaded. "Be careful, Master. If Kreacher sees Master drinking too much, or too often, Kreacher will dump all of the liquor down the sink. Noble house elves always make sure their Master's take care of themselves, even if we have to make them unhappy and dump the alcohol down the drain, Sir!"

Harry laughed, certain the good elf was not lying.

HHHHHHHH

Two hours later found Harry in the sitting room, dancing wildly to one of the livelier stations on the Wizarding wireless. Almost half the bottle of Firewhiskey was gone, but that didn't matter, as Kreacher had been true to his word and confiscated the bottle. Harry wasn't concerned with that, because he was drunk and happy.

In fact, Harry was very drunk. After the first few drinks, the whiskey had stopped burning and developed a milder taste, due to his dampened taste buds. From then on, it had been easier to slug the liquid back, with no real sense of pacing or moderation. But now he didn't care, because the music was much too entertaining.

The song he had been dancing to ended, and the wireless set was now blaring advertisements instead. Harry stopped dancing, panting heavily and clutching his sides. His drunken mind decided he had enough of dancing, and was now considering other fun activities.

An idea hit, and he was caught in giddy laughter at the idea. He was going to go see Snape, because he must be lonely in Hermione's house. Fuelled by the genius of his idea, Harry rocketed down the stairs, before realizing he needed to be quiet if he was going to make it past Kreacher's vigilant monitoring of him.

He sneaked into the kitchen, looking around to make sure the house elf was not present. He wasn't, so Harry silently made his way to the liquor cabinet, grabbing another bottle of firewhiskey. He held it for a moment, thinking, before pulling off the cap and taking a quick pull from the bottle. Gasping in satisfaction, he corked the bottle once more before making his way to the fireplace.

Throwing in a handful of floo powder, he stepped in, giggling as the flames licked at his sides.

"Granger home!" He shouted, holding the bottle tight against his body as he began to spin.

One thrilling ride later, he stumbled out of the Granger fireplace, exhilarated from the trip over.

Snape wasn't in the sitting room, much to Harry's initial disappointment.

"Snape!" He yelled, trying to hear if there were footsteps coming from any where in the house. After a moment, he turned and jumped, surprised to find Snape standing a few feet away.

"God, you're scary when you do that… like a giant, sneaky spider. Or bat, you could be a bat, you know. Here, I brought you this, to cheer you up." Harry beamed as he held out the bottle to the frowning Snape.

Snape raised an eyebrow and took in the state of his former student.

"You're drunk." He stated dryly.

"Aren't we all, Snapey, aren't we all?" Harry giggled, stumbling forward and shoving the bottle into the man's hand.

SSSSSSS

A/N

I know the plot is going a little slow, I apologize. I'm long winded and take a while to work into things. I'm also still trying to get my line breaks to work for me, so just bear with me, please. Hope you enjoyed.


	4. Chapter 4

Snape cursed god. He never had believed in a divine being, but at the moment, he felt it was more appropriate to blame something other than the swaying, teetering, and giggling example of humanity before him for his inconvenience. Yes, cursing god was much more satisfying… the creature was supposed to have some sort of power and control, which the abomination of messy hair and jellied legs before him certainly did not possess. His cold staring, which had gone on for a few moments while he observed the pest, only seemed to encourage it. Turning, he walked to the kitchen without a word, leaving Potter to sway in the sitting room.

He placed the bottle on the counter and moved towards the stove. Ignoring the small crash of Potter's introduction to the kitchen chairs, he filled the kettle and set it to boil.

"It's just that everything is so sad." Potter slurred from the kitchen table. Snape didn't turn to him, finding no desire to engage a drunken Potter in his drunken lamentations. There was another giggle. "I mean, Voldemort's gone. He's not coming back, which is a really, really good thing, but it's so hard to be happy. Little Teddy doesn't have parents anymore, and _I'm_ his godfather! What can I do for a little baby?" There was another giggle, or maybe the sound of shuddering breaths from the table.

Snape began to prepare tea, for one. "Potter, a godfather?" He thought, wondering who would be stupid enough to make that choice. His hands stopped for a moment as he realized who, and what exactly it meant. Remus Lupin. He set the tea to steep, opening the cupboard and removing a mug.

"And George… He's just so dead. It's like he can't live without Fred. I almost think both of them died that night, but George is still breathing." More shuddered breathing.

"Fred Weasley is dead?" Snape asked, unable to help himself. Potter drew in a shaking breath and dispelled something that Snape decided was an affirmative. Fred Weasley's death was not an emotional blow to Snape; he just always viewed the twins as too despicably _jolly_ to be felled by the war. He had expected Remus to die long before, starting from his missions with his fellow afflicted, and had only been momentarily surprised to find out the man had survived for so long only to be defeated at the very end.

Potter was clearly crying at the table, his sobs too clear to mistake for any other noise. Snape knew what was happening. The boy was in the middle of an emotional breakdown, no doubt fuelled by the alcohol. He couldn't bring himself to feel any pity. What else did the moron expect from drinking so much after so many life-changing events? No doubt the brat had meant to make himself feel better. Snape snorted. He knew what a stupid idea that was.

All he wanted was for Potter to leave him alone until he figured out his emotional baggage. Even without being drunk, Snape was positive Potter's brain was overwhelmed by the churning emotions he was too weak to manage. For now, Snape had to settle for simply removing Potter from his presence and ensuring he would not be bothered for the rest of the night.

He couldn't return the boy to where he had come—he had no idea where that was or if it was safe. Snape did not want allow an inebriated Potter to die when it could have been easily prevent. Yes, he was cold and mostly heartless, but he was not without a conscience. His conscience, however, did not make him a nice man.

For the first time since entering the kitchen, he turned to look at Potter. The boy was a mess, still crying into his hands. Snape walked over to him and roughly grabbed an arm, forcing him to stand.

"What are you doing?" Potter cried, making weak attempts to pry Snape's hand from his arm.

"I'm putting you to bed." Grunted Snape as he pulled Potter to the stairs. Potter stumbled behind him, yelping when he lagged too far behind on a step and Snape pulled his arm to speed him along

"Snape!" Potter yelled, obviously displeased at his treatment.

"You stupid boy!" Snape snarled as he pulled him down the hall. "You show up here drunk to bother me and you expect me to be kind? I'm putting you to bed where you'll sleep it off, leave me in peace, and hopefully come to realize the sheer stupidity of your actions." Potter quieted, and when Snape glanced back at the boy, he was please to see he looked ashamed and depressed.

He pulled him into the guest bedroom, where Snape had been staying the last few nights. It was bare and boring, its only feature was a small television set on the dresser. Snape silently locked the wardrobe that housed the few possessions Granger and Potter had managed to salvage for him during their short trip back to Spinner's End, and released Potter.

The boy teetered forward before managing to correct his footing. He looked around the room, confusion now taking up residence on his face alongside the guilt and sadness.

"You'll stay here tonight," Snape informed him as he conjured a pitcher of water and a glass from the kitchen. "You'll make no noise, and you will not disturb me, is that clear?" Potter nodded, collapsing on the bed.

Snape left without another word, locking the door with a charm a mere _Alohamora_ would not break. There was no way Potter would be able to leave, for whatever the reason, until he was sober enough to manage coherent magic and thought. True, he also had no access to the washroom… but there was a rubbish bin. If he needed to relieve himself, or vomit, he could figure out what to do… and if not, he could endure the mess and smell until morning when he would be sober enough to manage a Vanishing spell. It was the best course of action to make it completely clear that Snape would not condone his behavior, and would not comfort or welcome him during moments of drunken despair.

He made his way back to the kitchen where he sipped his now luke-warm tea. Grumpily he heated the tea once more, before retreated to Granger's room where he could loose himself in books and hopefully relax after the stress of his evening.

A/N

HAHA. Wow, we readers of fanfiction suck. My stories are getting a decent amount of hits considering my lack of quality and the shortness of the story so far, but out of boredom i decided to see what percent of readers actually review. it's .7%. i'm not saying i'm great, or anything like that, but if you guys are all wondering why there are so many stories out there that are okay, on average, despite evidence the author could do much better... it's partly because you, as a reader, suck, unless you are the exception (and you likely aren't, because it's hard to be part of .7%). i generally try to review a story, unless i start reading and then look at the clock and think "my god, i'm an hour late to go to that thing i'm obligated to be at". if you find a story you think the author could do better on, and you want them to improve because you see potential, than stop sighing and sticking your thumb up your butt and offer suggestions. maybe not on my story, because you may think i have no room for improvement and have decided your going to give up after 4 chapters because you gave it a chance and it didn't jive... whatever, i'm not insulted. but on other stories, take a minute out of the hour or more you're going to spend staring at a screen to encourage and help the author you've been made at for a month for not updating. ugh... now, onto the original author's notes... this is an add on.

It's short, I know, but I just had the idea of how I wanted this small bit of interaction to play out, and I had to write it before I lost it. There are plenty of amazing Harry/Severus mentor fics out there, and generally when Harry is vulnerable (even at the very beginning) Snape always babies him a little. This has always, and will always, bother me. I just can't see him as the type to mother Harry while drunk/sick, or be too concerned with casting monitoring charms over him unless the situation is very dire. This is how I think Snape would deal with a drunken Harry… callous and mean. Cheers!


	5. Chapter 5

Harry woke, his eyes straining to see in the darkness. After a moment of trying to make out nondescript forms in the faint light, he decided his difficulties did not stem from the poor lighting, but from the ach that penetrated his head, making his eyes hurt and his neck tense. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the headache away. When mind-over-matter failed, he opened his eyes once again, resolved to endure the mild agony.

This time, he noticed something was wrong. He had assumed, from his aching head, that he was in the Hospital Wing. But the small room bore little resemblance to the open wing, and there were no sounds of Madam Pomfrey shuffling about out of sight.

_Where?_ He thought dumbly. Wracking his brains, he quickly came to the answer.

_Oh gods no…_ He was astounded. Had he really harassed Snape, while drunk? Dimly, he recalled shoving a bottle into the poor man's hands, and then…

_Oh no._ Crying. He remembered crying in the kitchen. He closed his eyes again while he relived what little he could remember from the previous evening. The more he recalled, the more surreal it all seemed. He had joyously invaded a fearsome man's privacy, and had cried in his presence. Yet he was still alive, and other than his self-inflicted damage, unharmed.

With a sigh Harry sat up in the bed, deciding that despite his shame, he couldn't lay there all day. After a moment of bracing himself, he noticed his mouth was painfully, disgustingly dry. Glancing around, he caught sight of a pitcher of water and a glass set on the dresser across the room.

He went to it and quickly poured out a measure of water, gulped it down, and repeated. After consuming three glasses, he noticed his headache had retreated, leaving his neck a little stiff, but otherwise no worse for wear.

_I thought hangovers were supposed to be much more terrible._

He couldn't help but wonder, and feel relieved, that his first hangover was proving to be nothing much. Shrugging at the mystery of it, he wandered to the window and drew the curtains. Faint morning light dusted over the ordinary suburb, looking cool and dim. It was early.

_I wonder if Snape is awake?_ Harry hoped the man was asleep, but knew it wasn't likely. He just had to be brave and face him on his way out.

SSSSSSSSSS

Looking up from his morning tea, Snape smirked to himself when he heard the door handle rattle and faint cursing. He wasn't surprised that Harry had woken so early; the boy had always been an early riser and a late rester. It was fitting for him, providing him with as many hours as possible in which to cause mayhem each day.

Today, Snape hoped, Harry would be suffering terribly. A fitting punishment for his inconsiderate infractions.

He heard muffled steps on the stairs and wondered if Harry would simply sneak his way out of the house. Part of him desired that. As much as he wanted to see the famous boy in the grip of a hangover and ashamed, he was also suffering from a bit of malaise that left him mildly disinterested. He had started his morning badly, his thoughts almost immediately venturing to his future and what he was to expect. Sitting in this house, waiting for people to have enough time to deal with him, was not what he had planned, and was starting to wear on him. His incarceration was eminent, and he wanted the issues resolved quickly so he could finally seek satisfactory retribution for his actions.

It was during this line of thought that Harry chose to poke his head into the kitchen. In the grey morning light his face looked pale, yet Snape could detect a faint blush on his peaked pallor. So, the boy was ashamed. He found it harder to enjoy the situation than he thought he would.

"I'm, uh, leaving." Harry blurted, casting his eyes furtively around the kitchen, avoiding Snape's. "I wanted to… I wanted to apolo—"

"You and your half-wit friends need to figure out what you'll do with me." Snape growled unexpectedly. He hadn't planned on saying that. In fact, he had been looking forward to hearing Potter's bumbling excuses. His demand had torn out of him without permission, a result of his frustration at being pent up.

"Oh, yeah, well." Harry rubbed the back of his head, causing the hair to stand up in an even more unruly manner. He hadn't thought Snape would bring that up at the moment. He had been steeling himself to withstand cutting remarks at his character, not demands that he attend to the real issue at hand.

"We will. Hermione and I are just about ready. It's been, er, more difficult than we thought it would be since it all ended. But we will. Get to you, I mean." Harry's embarrassment was obvious, but it wasn't just that. He felt bad for his incompetence, something Snape had thought the boy incapable of.

Snape said nothing, just sat there with his face pinched in annoyance. Eventually Harry began to fidget in the awkwardness of the situation, not knowing what to do when Snape refused to say anything.

"Well, I'll be going now. We'll owl, or something, to let you know when we're coming to…" With that, Harry stiffly nodded his head towards Snape, then left the kitchen entry. A moment later Snape could hear the flare of flames from the living room fire, a muffled yell.

With a sigh, Snape kneaded the bridge of his nose, and wondered darkly about his fate.

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**AN:**

**Sorry about the long wait, you wonderful people who subject yourself to my writing. There's two chapters I've put up for the few of you who are kind enough to humor me. I hope you enjoy them… but, if you don't, there's no need to lie ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: So, if you're one of my few readers, and you've gone to this chapter right away, you've gone too far. To make up for my long absence, I've uploaded two chapters simultaneously, and this is the second one. So, to my few readers, I hope you enjoy.**

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* * *

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"Hermione, we need to do something about Snape."

Harry was in the kitchen, watching as Hermione poured herself another cup in the never-ending succession of cups of coffee. He resisted the urge to comment. He was worried for her. Her hair was, amazingly, messier and bushier than ever, her skin dreadfully pale, and the dark circles under her eyes were far worse than he had ever seen, even at exam time. But, still, he resisted, knowing full well telling Hermione that she, frankly, looked like shit, would certainly not endear her to the idea of resolving the Snape issue quickly. Besides, she was intelligent and observant. She surely knew what she looked like, but she had good reasons. Ron was not doing well, that much was apparent.

Harry was hit by a sudden wave of guilt. He knew he should be doing more for his best friend, doing more to console him. But he had been trying, had been doing something. He just hadn't had much luck in his attempts, and had a hard time seeing his friend that way. In time, he knew, things would get better, Ron would get better, and he just had to be patient and available. Every thing was just so much more difficult right now, with the shock of loss still so new. Harry wasn't even sure himself if he had started mourning yet, if the deaths of Fred, Lupin, Tonks… if the weight of all the deaths that night had even reached him yet. He was scared of what would happen when they did. But in the mean time, he vowed, he would put in a better effort to help Ron and his family, at least until he needed some help himself.

"Yes, you're right. Let's get this over with. There's so much to be done to keep putting every thing off." Hermione, despite her weariness, sounded resolute and determined, which heartened Harry. Yes, they would tackle this, and then move on.

SSSSSSSSS

The intruder alarm was going off. It was sometime near midnight, and, it seemed, Snape had an unwelcomed guest. Gripping his wand tightly, he silently went through the back kitchen door to greet his… guest.

He was irritated. Whoever this person was, they had terrible timing. He had actually been enjoying himself, sitting in the small back yard, contemplating things quietly while he gazed at the cloudless sky. Hopefully it was just some muggle thief, a person he could just quickly wipe the memory of and send on their way. It couldn't be anyone from the annoying trio; they came in from the flew, and would not set off the intruder alarms with their entry.

Carefully treading through the kitchen, he could now hear some one moving about in the sitting room. Who ever the unwelcomed person was, they were not overly concerned with stealth. And, if Snape was hearing the muttering correctly, they sounded young.

Stupid. Whoever this person was, in Snape's mind, was stupid. Or fairly convinced that Snape would mean no harm to them. Readying himself, Snape prepared to catch them off guard and then quickly apprehend them. He intended to have this person detained, then on their way, very soon.

"Severus?" The high, clear voice calling his name was familiar. Very familiar. Snape cursed. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

"Draco, what are you doing here?" He growled, giving up all pretense of stealth. The boy in question followed his voice, squinting as he crossed from the dark sitting room into the bright kitchen.

"I'd like to ask the same of you." He said curtly. Snape fought the desire to wrap his hands around his pale neck and throttle him for his arrogance. Snape wasn't even sure if Draco ever meant to even sound arrogant most the time… just a by-product of his up bringing. Watching the boy with a wary eye as he casually surveyed the kitchen with a slightly repulsed look on his face, Snape guessed that this wasn't one of those times.

"That's none of your concern. Leave."

"No, I don't think I will." Draco replied smoothly. He had picked up the bottle of firewhiskey and was examining it. Setting it down, he opened the cupboards and began shifting things around, until he pulled out two glasses and set them on the counter.

Snape watched disapprovingly as Draco poured out two measures, taking a glass for himself and sliding the other down the counter towards Snape. Draco ignored him while he took a sniff, then sampled the amber liquid. Whatever the boy was testing in the liquor seemed to meet his approval. This annoyed Snape as well. What kind of palate would a seventeen-year-old boy have for hard liquor? It was most likely another one of those things that was a result of his upbringing.

"Then what, pray tell, are you doing hear?" Snape growled. He was certain if he continued to keep the company of idiots and morons, it would be the only way he would be able to speak.

"Well, the parents, I've decided, have finally gone over the deep end, and so has the ministry. They seem to have decided to annex our home, and the constant scrutiny has had a rather, hm, undesirable effect on Mother and Father. I've decided to escape the lunacy and seek better company."

Oh, the nerve. The boy was blatantly lying about his reasons, and Snape thought he was full of it when he claimed to be seeking better company. Yes, Draco most certainly had ulterior motives, Snape was certain, considering Draco was claiming finding refuge in a repulsive muggle home was his desire. Especially the muggle home of a hated Mudblood occupied by a fugitive.

Whatever it was, Snape decided, it was much too late to investigate now. He would put the boy up in one of the rooms, the pry into his motives in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hi. So, um, I haven't updated in, what? A year? I don't even know. I lost access to the computer I had the previous story saved on and, well, life, I guess. But I was actually going through my stories, for once, and noticed it still gets the occasional hit sometimes. I've been wanting to write a story lately, but couldn't think of anything, but I think I'll continue with this. I've forgotten much of the original plot, but still have a vague memory of what I was thinking. That's why this chapter is so short. But, things permitting, I'll be able to get more written soon.

"How did you find me?" The shock of the student he felt the most responsibility for showing up unannounced had abated slightly, allowing his mind to focus on the more relevant issues.

"Well, for me, it was simple. Other than his friends, I know Potter better than any one else at Hogwarts. I simply figured that when you didn't turn up… there… and when you hadn't been arrested, he must have intervened. I knew I couldn't go to the Black house looking for you, and you most likely wouldn't have been at the Weasel den, so I looked up Granger's address… In the phonebook."

"You looked up her address in the phone book?" Snape asked, amazed. When had Draco ever taken to using muggle sources and objects for anything. Truly he must have been desperate.

Draco averted his eyes and brought his tea cup to his face, portraying his embarrassment at the situation. It was the next morning after his sudden appearance. Despite his bravado the night before, he had obviously been exhausted and had allowed Snape to point him at Hermione's bedroom without protest. Snape had felt slightly hesitant at the arrangement, wondering if he should have taken the girl's bedroom to prevent inappropriate snooping and eventual anger on Granger's part, but the idea of sleeping in his student's room had been abhorrent. These arrangements would have been much easier if their had been any furniture left in the parent's room, but that unfortunately was not the case.

Observing Draco carefully for a moment, Snape noticed things about him that attested to his state of mind being much worse than he let on. Already pale, his face had taken on the color of paper; he held his mug with shaking hands, hunched over to take in the heat wafting from the tea. He looked sick and distant, his eyes glazed over an unseeing.

"Why are you really here?" Snape asked, fortifying himself for the process of whittling down the lies of an evasive teenager to get to the truth.

"Why are you?" Draco asked derisively, an attempt at a sneer flickering and dying on his face.

Snape ignored this, simply staring until he received an answer. Draco closed his eyes for a brief moment, making a soft wheezing noise as he breathed.

"Like I told you, things have gone crazy with my parents. I needed to get away from it, and I honestly thought I was safer here than any where else."

Still feeling as though he wasn't getting a truthful answer, Snape opened his mouth to reprimand him but was interrupted from the noise of some one entering the sitting room.

"Who's that?" Draco asked, his voice squeaking in panic.

"Most likely one of the dynamic duo." Snape said dully, his day already going worse than planned. He wanted out of this house, out of this strange custody, away from teenagers. This had not been what he'd had in mind when he had prepared himself for an easy surrender.

"Duo?" Draco whispered to himself as the door to the kitchen banged open. There was a sudden shriek and a bang. Half expecting to find himself cursed, Snape was slightly amused to find himself facing a gasping Granger, her arm outstretched and her face panicked.

"Granger?"

"What – what is he doing here?" She asked shrilly. Slowly, she lowered her arm, and Snape discovered that the jinx had not, in fact , been aimed at himself, but Draco. Freshly paralyzed, Draco glared at her with a mixture of anger and fear.

"That is what I have been attempting to uncover myself."

"Oh." Glancing at Draco, Hermione squinted her eyes for a moment before turning her attention to the news paper clutched in her left hand. Returning her gaze to Draco once more, she raised her arm and quickly muttered the anti-jinx.

"So, what are you doing here, Malfoy?"

Looking between the two, Snape was slightly surprised to see Draco's face turn red and his lips clench together stubbornly. Hermione waited briefly, sighed, took another look at her paper, then strode to the cupboard and pulled out a mug. Snape noticed Draco looking at the paper with apparent anxiety, and determined there must be something in it that explained, at least partially, Draco's sudden appearance.

Pouring herself tea, she hardly paid any more attention to Malfoy, instead addressing Snape as if the boy was not in the room.

"Could you come with me, please? I want to talk to you." Not waiting for an answer, she left the room.

He entered the sitting room to find Granger already perched, straight backed, on an armchair, glowering at the floor.

"I think we made a mistake." She said hurriedly.

"Oh?"

"I was the one who came up with the idea of finding your, especially before the ministry could administer their, um, swift justice." She said the last part with disgust, obviously not fond of how the ministry conducted its affairs.

"Is that so?"

"Yes," She snapped, looking irritated with herself. "But now I think Harry agreed to it for the wrong reasons, whether he realizes it or not." She narrowed her eyes at him while considering her next words. "I thought we could learn something from you, but I'm not quite sure what to ask. Most of the things I've been searching the answers for have already revealed themselves without your help, such as your involvement in the war, who was really on what sides. But I think Harry has other questions for you. I think he has a vendetta against…" She stopped herself here, taking a flustered breath.

"Even if that's what you may believe, there's a wealth of information you haven't the faintest clue of. There are so many things you'll never know about what was happening during all these years." Snape told her sadly, imagining her, an insufferable know-it-all, growing frustrated as she began to realize this; realizing that despite her extreme diligence and care there would always be pieces of the puzzle she would never find.

"Are you trying to give me a reason for changing my mind? Make me more accepting of the fact that you're here, in my parent's home, even as I change my mind about it? Because you're not making a very good case for yourself. I know I convinced Harry, but I'm not so sure now."

"No, miss Granger, I'm merely stating fact. At this point I really could care less what happens to me. I still very much expect to be handed over to the ministry at any time, by any one of you."

Hermione shifted in her seat. Despite her strong words, the actual idea of giving him up seemed to bother her.

"Why is Malfoy here?" As she asked, Snape noticed her hand quickly go to the paper tucked away at her side.

"What's in the Prophet today, miss Granger? You seem to know something I don't know."

"Oh, um, nothing," She said shakily, "What is he doing here, sir?"

"He told me he was here because the ministry had taken all his family's belongings, and, as he put it, his parents are crazy at the moment." Hermione blanched slightly at this, "Granger, what's in the newspaper?" He asked again, convinced there was something in there he needed to know.

"I'm afraid it's rather bad news. For Draco. I don't know if he knows this yet or not." Sighing, she fished the Prophet out from between her thigh and the chair and handed it to him.

Reading through the first two pages quickly, he frowned. His first impulse was to point out how stupid the whole thing was, but he held his tongue, knowing full well that Hermione would, at best, find the comment in poor taste. Most likely she would fly into an indignant rant on respect and courtesy, and so on.

It wasn't that he was insensitive or cruel, it was just the strangeness and the timing of the events that had him feeling it was so stupid. But, he admitted to himself, he didn't know the full story.

"So, they're dead." He stated, hoping she would have some embellishment to add the rather brief article.

"Yes," She looked to her feet, "The ministry was looking to punish them. There were rumors of life imprisonment, that sort of thing. I don't know why, exactly, he did it. Perhaps out of shame, or fear, but it was a murder-suicide. They think it happened only yesterday. I thought- well, um, I thought that Malfoy was there. Every one seems to think that. It was very, uh, surprising to find him sitting in my kitchen." Snape noticed she had omitted guilt in her list of reasons, and found that he didn't disagree with that. What ever reason Lucius Malfoy would have for murdering his wife then turning his wand to himself, it would not have been guilt.

"So, the real question is, does Draco know?" Snape muttered to himself.

Hermione looked up in alarm, just as Snape cocked his head to the side. Very faintly, in only more than a whisper, they heard it through the kitchen door:

"Yes, Draco knows."

Overwhelmed by the moment's stress added to the stress of the last several days, Hermione buried her face in her hands and began sobbing.

Sighing softly, Snape wondered what he was getting himself into, and resigned himself to sit there and watch another one of his former students cry.


End file.
